by Oakland Ross
CHAPTER 22
IT WAS BOMBELLES WHO acted first. He tightened his grip on one of the pine torches, barged ahead, and disappeared. The remaining travellers briefly held back but then seemed to reach the same unspoken decision. One after another, they ventured into the cave, passing instantly from the glare of day into the cavernous night. Diego was third in line. The remaining hussar guards brought up the rear, both bearing torches that provided a fitful illumination that danced against the craggy walls. The light was sufficient to let everyone grope his way forward—and downward. They descended along the uneven floor of the tunnel, unable to see more than a vara or so ahead. Before long, the passage veered off to the left, narrowed abruptly, and then just as quickly widened into a sort of underground salon. Here, they encountered the emperor and Bombelles, both of them standing against a damp slab of rock, each holding a torch, waiting for the others to catch up.
Maximiliano raised his free arm in a gesture of welcome. “Mi casa es su casa.”
His words echoed through the chamber and beyond. It occurred to Diego what a fascinating mixture of boldness and reserve was contained in the man’s temperament. He could debate with himself for half an hour over an innocuous piece of correspondence, yet here he had charged into the subterranean darkness without a scruple of any kind.
“Halloo! Halloo!” the Countess Kollonitz called out in a high-pitched voice. The word repeated itself over and over in a hollow echo that seemed to recede further and further into the earth. The only other sound was the regular ping of water falling upon water.
“Come,” said Maximiliano. “Let us tour the rest of our new abode.”
After tilting to the left, the tunnel led downward and grew steadily narrower, so that they all were obliged to duck their heads to avoid brushing against the ceiling. Soon the tunnel widened again and then opened into a large cavern, where they could easily stand upright. The light from the torches seemed to flare around and above, glancing against several massive stalactites that projected downward from a high stone ceiling. A broad pool of water filled most of the chamber, its deep expanse seeming to glow in the reflected light of the torches, an eerie spectacle of luminous and variegated blue. The effect was uncanny—as if the water were somehow being irradiated from below, as if some mysterious source of light beamed upward through the pool. Aquamarine at its edges, the water darkened to a mass of liquid cobalt at the centre. So this was the reason for the name—las grutas luminosas. The shining caves.
Diego felt as though he were trespassing somehow. Water dripped from the ceiling of the great sunken hall and spattered against the surface of the blue pool, just as it must have done for centuries. His throat was dry, and he struggled to swallow, uneasy amid the ghostly surroundings. He felt an urge to escape.
For his part, the emperor seemed calm, almost delighted. He said he wished to enjoy a swim. He handed off his torch to one of the hussars and balanced himself by a large damp rock. He began to yank off his boots and stockings. He rose to his feet and then lurched forward, stumbling barefoot into the pool.
“Eureka!” he shouted, and the word repeated itself over and over before gradually fading. He threw himself forward onto his chest and plunged beneath the shimmering surface, gliding through the light like a dense blue shadow. Something caused Diego to follow the man’s example. He, too, wanted the sensation of water. He tore off his boots and stockings and darted toward the pool, splashing through the shallows before diving headlong into the strangely radiant lagoon.
The water was shockingly cold, and when he breached the surface his skin seemed to ripple uncontrollably. But soon enough he grew accustomed to the temperature of the water, bitter as it was, and basked instead in the pleasure of being immersed in this shining blue element.
“Ah, don Diego. Is that you?”
It was the emperor, swimming easily on his side.
Without a word, as if by some silent agreement, he and Maximiliano began to stroke in the direction of the opposite bank, dimly visible as a series of shadows in the aquamarine light. Before long, Diego’s hand nudged up against the hardness of rock, and he managed with some difficulty to haul himself up on to a low ledge. The emperor did the same. For a time, they remained where they were, hunched side by side in their dripping clothes, gazing out at the strange blue evanescence of the pool, at the dancing shapes cast by the torchlight upon the ceiling of the cave, and at the dangling blades of the stalactites.
“Serrano, you’ve acquitted yourself admirably. Well done.”
Diego put back his shoulders and smiled to himself. It was no unpleasant feeling to have bested Salm-Salm, and it was rendered all the more gratifying by the emperor’s words.
At his side, the emperor had begun to shiver. “Dear God, I do feel a chill. Don’t you?” His teeth chattered as he spoke.
Diego began to shiver, too. The prospect of immersing himself again in the painfully cold water suddenly seemed like a kind of torture. He reached back with his right arm to steady himself and felt his hand brush against a rock, or something like a rock. He thought somehow of a small unripe calabash and immediately knew what it was he was touching. He closed his hand around the thing and drew it out into the faint blue light.
He was holding a skull, a human skull. It leered at him with an expression that should have been fixed but seemed strangely changeable, as if it were laughing through the havoc of shadows and light. He felt a weight behind him, a burden he had not sensed before. He did not need to turn. He did not need to look. But he was unable to resist. He did turn—and there they were, jumbled behind his back, a great hummock of bones piled atop a broad stone ledge. There must have been hundreds. Maybe thousands. What crime had been committed here? Some massive execution? He held the skull up in the dim light.
“God in heaven!” cried the emperor. He, too, turned and looked before plunging back into the pool and ploughing away through the ice-cold and shattering water. He gasped and spluttered, his arms flailing at his sides. Diego flung the thing away and threw himself into the lagoon. He swam toward the emperor. Before long, both men were clambering through the shallows and up onto the bank where the others waited.
Maximiliano said nothing but only rooted about for his boots and stockings. He staggered away barefoot, and Diego followed, clutching his own stockings and boots to his chest. The two of them blundered ahead through the darkness. Diego was vaguely aware of the other members of the party trailing somewhere behind, their voices dashing against the walls of successive caverns and tunnels. The climb seemed to take far longer than the descent, but at last he rounded a final turn, the light seemed to explode, and he stumbled out into the bright midday sunshine.
The heat seemed to pulse from every surface, from the dirt, the stones, the branches of trees, the brittle leaves crackling on the ground. Maximiliano stumbled off alone, bearing in the direction of the grove of plum trees. He was still barefoot, his boots and hosiery cradled in his arms.
Diego’s mind raced. He wondered what chain of events had ended in that underground chamber, leaving that immensity of bones. He pulled on the first of his boots and was cursing under his breath as he struggled with the second when the torrid air seemed to split apart, pierced by a man’s high-pitched scream.
CHAPTER 23
IT WAS THE EMPEROR. He’d been stung by a scorpion—Diego was sure of it. He hurried over to help, convinced that it was his fault. He should have warned the emperor to be careful, to inspect his footwear, just as he had done—it was practically an instinct among Mexicans. Without a doubt, the arachnid had crept into the emperor’s boot while they both were swimming in the underground lagoon. Why hadn’t he given a warning? Maximiliano lay prostrate on the parched grass, conscious but disoriented, while Diego and the others knelt around him. His eyes were open, but he seemed dazed and uncomprehending. He did not respond to their voices.
“Is he breathing?” said Salm-Salm.
“Breathing, yes,” Diego said. “Damned scorpions. They’r
e everywhere.”
He began scouring the parched earth and shrivelled ground cover for some sign of the creature. He advanced on his knees, his eyes fixed on the earth in front of him. He kept thinking he’d spotted the beast, only to realize that what he saw was just a stick or a shadow of some sort. The damned things were well camouflaged. Still, he kept looking. He knew it was important to identify the scorpion in question, if he could. He kept at it until at last he saw the beast. There it was—its tail curled over its back, its limbs twitching in the faint breeze. Diego darted over, scooped up the scorpion with his hand, and smacked it against a rock. There. Done. He slipped the corpse into the pocket of his blouse.
If he expected congratulations, he got none. In fact, no one seemed to have noticed. Bombelles and several of the hussars had lifted the emperor up and were carrying him toward the horses, evidently meaning to help him onto his mount. Someone had knotted a makeshift tourniquet around his upper leg. With some effort, they heaved the man aloft, and he flopped into the saddle like a raggedy doll. He was still conscious, it seemed, but confused and weak. He hung his head and moaned.
“Hush,” said the empress, who stood by her husband’s horse. “Take deep breaths. Try to relax. You’ll be fine. I promise.”
Her words seemed to have a calming effect. At least, the emperor managed to take up the reins and to keep his balance. Still, his shoulders drooped, his head lolled forward, and his gaze seemed glassy and unfocused. It occurred to Diego that the venom must have worked uncommonly fast.
Carlota took command. She turned to address the party. “All right then. Everybody hurry. We must be quick.”
Once all were mounted and ready, she turned to Diego. “Well?”
“I found the scorpion.”
“You can identify it?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
Her jaw muscles tautened. “Very well,” she said. “Let’s be off.”
They set out along the stream bed, retracing their path in the direction of Cocoyotla. Ashen-faced and silent, the emperor slouched over the pommel of his saddle, clutching the reins with both hands.
“We must ride no faster than this,” said Salm-Salm. He explained that excessive movement would only hasten the spread of the poison through the emperor’s leg and to the rest of his body. He turned to Diego. “You could have prevented this. Why didn’t you warn him? The man is without an heir!” He narrowed his eyes. “I mean to hold you responsible, whatever happens.”
The party continued along the stream bed for another quarter-hour or so, until Diego sensed a disturbance just ahead. He saw the girl, Beatríz. Astride her bay mare, she rounded a bend in the riverbed, riding toward them at a brisk jog. A jaunty straw hat framed her oval face, and she wore a broad smile. In spite of the urgency of the situation, Diego briefly imagined her as a sort of princess, an Indian princess surveying her private domain. On a long hemp-woven shank, she led one of the donkeys. A pair of twin clay pots of water bobbed against its flanks, one on each side. She drew her horse to a halt.
“You needed water,” she said. She explained that she had guided the others through the more difficult terrain on their return journey and had then left them to make the rest of the trek on their own. She frowned and fell silent as she realized something was wrong. “His Majesty?”
“A scorpion.” Diego eased his horse forward and extracted the creature’s remains from his breast pocket. “Here. Look.”
Beatríz drew closer to inspect the small and misshapen corpse.
“Is it very poisonous?” said the empress.
The girl hesitated. She said she was of the opinion the scorpion belonged to the variety known as alacrán tartarus—the scorpion of Tarturus—sometimes known as the underground scorpion. She looked over at the emperor, who seemed barely conscious, his arms dangling at his sides, barely holding onto the reins.
“Very poisonous?” she said. “It can be.”
She dismounted and instructed the hussars to lower the emperor from his horse. At her direction, the soldiers bore the ailing man toward the bank, where they laid him down upon a muddle of dried leaves, gnarled tree roots, and loamy soil. Maximiliano seemed wholly delirious now. His head sagged to the side, and his breath came in shallow gasps.
“Dear God, no,” said Salm-Salm. He got down on his knees.
The girl crouched above the emperor and inspected his bare foot. She soon found the site of the sting, located in the hollow between his left heel and ankle. Without hesitation or ceremony, she pressed her lips to the wound and sucked out what fluid she could, discreetly spat it away, then wiped her lips on the sleeve of her blouse. She announced that the venom had probably already dispersed too widely into the emperor’s bloodstream for it to be withdrawn effectively. She thought it would be best if they all proceeded as quickly as possible, not to Cocoyotla but to a town located in the opposite direction. Taxco was its name. The parish priest there, Padre Buendía, was well known to her. Moreover, she was also acquainted with another gentleman there who was singularly adept at treating ailments of diverse descriptions, including those resulting from encounters with vipers and arachnids of all descriptions.
“He is a doctor?” said the empress.
“Of a sort.”
Carlota frowned.
“Un curandero,” said the girl. A healer.
“A healer?” said Salm-Salm. He turned toward Diego. “How could you let this happen?”
“Please,” said the girl. “It would be best to go quickly.”
No one had a better plan, and so they reversed direction and set out for Taxco. Everyone seemed apprehensive, but Salm-Salm was especially fretful. Periodically, he conferred in whispers with his wife, but Diego found it impossible to make out what was being said. He recalled his last conversation with Baldemar, who had exhorted him to seek out this very priest in this very town. He glanced over at the girl, who caught and held his gaze with those eerily static eyes of hers.
It seemed she meant to convey something—something about the emperor and the scorpion. But what? He was about to ask when she placed a finger against her lips.
He held his tongue, and the party continued on its way toward Taxco. All he knew was that the shadows were growing longer, the heat had at last begun to fade, and the emperor of Mexico had been rendered all but unconscious by a scorpion sting that he, Diego Serrano, should have anticipated and warned against.
It was twilight by the time the riders reached the town, a modest settlement of adobe houses clinging to the slopes of a large hill rising above a broad green plain. Barefoot Indian women padded through the shadows of dusk, tracing a series of rutted earthen lanes with infants clasped to their backs by handwoven shawls or with large cargos of firewood or other necessaries balanced atop their heads. Beatríz led the way to a small presbytery by the local church, an ornate baroque structure called the Templo de Santa Prisca. They were met by the priest, who strode out into the murky light with arms outstretched, greeting Beatríz warmly. A large, bald-pated fellow with twin fringes of greying hair, the priest wore a voluminous black cassock that was gathered at the waist by a hand-tooled leather belt, in which he carried a long-barrelled revolving pistol.
“Dangerous times, firm measures,” he said, placing a hand upon the weapon. “Behold, Mexico—a land where even the clergy must bear arms.”
So this was Padre Buendía.
“His Majesty is not well,” said Beatríz. “He has been stung by a scorpion.”
If Buendía was surprised to learn that his unexpected visitors included the emperor of the land, he managed not to show it.
“A scorpion?” he said. “Bring him inside at once.”
Again the girl glanced at Diego, and again her expression seemed to express some secret they shared. But what was it? Diego had no idea. He watched as Bombelles and his men carried the emperor inside. Then he swung down from his saddle and hurried after them.
CHAPTER 24
THE HUSSARS BORE THE emperor into the presb
ytery and upstairs to a vacant room, where they set him down on a bed. Others crowded into the room, and Diego found a place for himself just inside the door. Someone handed him a tallow candle in a tin holder. He held it up, casting a narrow dome of light.
Padre Buendía dispatched a servant to fetch a certain don Plutarco. This, it turned out, was the curandero whom Beatríz had spoken of. Within a matter of minutes, the healer shuffled into the room, a thin, elderly fellow with a narrow, grizzled face and a deep bronze complexion. He wore a frayed old coat over a collarless cotton shirt, loose cotton pants, and rawhide sandals.
The Indian looked around at the gathering, nodding at each individual in turn, as if he had encountered this very set of circumstances before and was in no way surprised by what he saw. “Does anyone have the animal?” he said.
“I do.” Diego took a step forward.
“Come,” said the man, and he led Diego back out into the cramped hallway. “Let me see.”
Beatríz joined them, and Diego handed her the candle. From his breast pocket, he slowly eased out the scorpion’s crumpled remains, holding them up to the light.
“Tarturus?” she said in a whisper.
The old man nodded. “Sí. Alacrán tarturus. No cabe duda.”
Without a doubt.
“What is it?” said Diego.
Don Plutarco stroked his slender chin and, leaning close, spoke in a whisper. “It lives in caves,” he said. “Its poison is weak.”
“Not dangerous?”
“For an adult, no. Not very dangerous.”
“But His Majesty—?”